


Twas The Night Before Christmas

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 02:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17736929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Mulder and Scully debate the existence of Santa Claus. Post season 11, no baby.





	Twas The Night Before Christmas

He’s hanging his stocking from the hook in the mantelpiece. There’s a warm glow from the fairy lights on the overly grand tree in the corner; they blaze and fade, highlighting Scully’s precision-positioned decorations.

“Is there some kind of mathematical equation for hanging baubles that I have been ignorant of all my life?” he asks as she hands him a mulled wine.

The warm smell of cinnamon hangs in the air. She snuffs a laugh from her pink-tipped nose and he picks up the poker to stoke the flames. The fire crackles and spits and he steps back, slotting an arm around her waist.

“Have you been naughty or nice this year, Mulder?” Her upturned mouth shimmers in the light, too pretty not to kiss.

She tastes of spice and citrus. “The year’s not out yet. Why don’t you let me know next week?” He burrows his chin into the juncture of her neck and shoulder and he can feel her breasts move against him as she laughs.

“Well,” she says, shouldering him away with a slow smile. “Let’s see what Santa puts in your stocking tonight.”

He looks down at her, cheeks wine-warmed, hair aflame like the fire, lips plump. She’s amazing, his Scully. Age hasn’t dulled his passion for everything about her. She still intrigues and mystifies him. Still keeps him guessing.

“I’d tell you that you would be the best stocking filler a boy could wish for, if it weren’t for respect and boundaries.” Her hair tickles the underside of his chin as they sway, watching the orange glow. “So, I’ll leave out carrots and a glass of the finest malt whisky and hope Saint Nick looks upon the new, grown up version of me proudly.”

She chinks her glass against his and swallows some more wine. “There are thousands of churches in Europe dedicated to St Nicholas, did you know that? Legend has it that he paid the dowries of three young girls to stop them from being sold into prostitution. Charity and kindness. We could use more men like him in our current climate.”

“Santa for president in 2020.” He drops a kiss on her head. “I didn’t think you believed?”

She snuggles closer to him, practically burrowing under his arm. He doesn’t mind. Her cheek presses against his pec and he flexes it just to get a reaction. She giggles. “Mulder, there’s a vast difference between the red-suited, white-bearded Coca-Cola brand we’re all used to seeing and the real Saint Nicholas, who lived in 4th Century Turkey and is the patron saint of sailors and ships.”

Her arm curls around his waist and he pulls her towards the couch where she lands half on him, half on the seat. Her legs drape over his knees and he tucks her feet down under his hand. She’s wearing knitted socks decorated with whimsical snowmen sporting top hats and button eyes and noses. How had he not noticed before? He snaps one against her ankle and she kicks his hands away.

“Bill sent them. We used to do this present exchange, you know, see who could give the tackiest gifts.”

“I can’t imagine that you, Dr Dana Scully, would indulge in a gaudy gift competition.”

She twists and plumps up a cushion. “I once sent him a toilet roll holder shaped like Polaroid camera. And another time, a yodelling pickle.”

Mulder sniggers and strokes her soles. She wriggles her toes and lays her head back. He watches her as her face relaxes, shadows playing over the perfect creaminess of her cheeks and neck. “Did you know that St Nicholas is also the patron saint of pawnbrokers and pirating and thievery. It’s amazing how a well-targeted marketing campaign can lift one’s image.

“Look at Kersh,” she says and they both laugh.

The fairy lights twinkle like the frost on the windows. The cabin was a perfect find, nestled in the hills. The forecast is for a white Christmas. There’ll be nothing to do but stay inside. The fridge is stocked - smoked salmon, Champagne, a Turducken and organic vegetables, a blueberry cheesecake in the shape of a love-heart, a seasonal special from the local patisserie.

“So, did you believe, as a child, Scully? Or did big brother Bill spoil the surprise?”

“Oh, it wasn’t Bill. It was Melissa.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “She of the harmonic conversions and mystical auras?”

Scully sniffs quietly, tucking her chin to her chest. “One Christmas, when she was about 12, Missy wanted a portable cassette player. You know the ones with the chunky white and red buttons? We shared a room and she wouldn’t settle, just kept sitting up and all I could hear was the rustling of her covers. I told her Santa wouldn’t visit if she didn’t go to sleep and she got out of her bed, sat on mine and laughed.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Dana, it’s time to face facts.’ The evidence is staring you in the face, yet you choose not to see it.” She looks at him and waits for a reaction. He nods for her to carry on. He loves it when she shares these memories, moments in her life that have stayed within. Whenever she tells them her breathing quickens and her eyes dart about, like she’s pulling images from her mind, sorting through the catalogue of conversations.

She sits up higher, heels digging into his thigh. “She said, with this real smug look on her face, ‘you do know that old Saint Nick is really Dad dressed up in some flea-bitten suit that Mom got from Goodwill and the sack is just an old hessian potato bag that lives at the bottom of their wardrobe all year.’

“I was devastated, but I tried so hard no to show it. I pulled the covers over my head and balled into my pillow. I cried myself to sleep, missed Santa’s arrival.”

“Did Missy get her cassette player?”

“That was the funny thing. She didn’t. She got a Barbie camper van and she launched it across the living room, yelling at Mom and Dad that she was too old for dolls and if Santa were real, he wouldn’t have delivered such a baby’s present. She yelled at Dad, ‘you never want me to grow up.’”

Scully leans her lips into her finger and thumb, rubbing gently and shaking her head. “Bill told her she was a spoilt brat and spent the morning trying to fix up the camper van. Missy spent the morning in our room and Mom carried on serving food like nothing had happened.”

He chuckles softly, imagining young Dana’s eyes widen and wet. “Was that the moment you decided on science as a career path?”

“God, no!” she says. “It just made me more determined to prove her wrong. My ten-year-old self reasoned that Santa must have been real because the gift was a reminder to Missy that she was still too young for grown up gifts and that her tantrum just served to prove that.”

“Santa always knows best.”

“Pretty silly, wasn’t it?” She lets out a soft flutter of giggles and slides closer, kissing him deeply.

Her head drops onto his shoulder and they watch the flames a little longer. “Did you know there’s a town in Alaska called North Pole? And that a man who changed his name to Santa Claus was elected to the city council there?”

“I did not,” she says, peppering his jawline with kisses. “But if we’re exchanging fun facts, have you ever wondered how many calories Santa consumes on his amazing trip around the world?”

“Not as many as your mother serves at a Scully family Christmas, I would imagine.”

“Assuming each household in the world left out two chocolate chip cookies he would consume something like 374 billion calories.”

Mulder whistles. “That’s quite a feat of endurance. I wonder how much his dental plan costs?”

She grins and he sees the fire reflected in her eyes. “If he could run an eight-minute mile, he would have to run for 109 centuries to burn off all those treats.”

“Nobody likes a math geek, Scully.”

There’s a rumbling noise from her throat as she leans in to kiss him. There’s a matching rumbling noise from his as she lifts herself across his lap, knees tucked either side of his thighs.

“You do, Mulder.” She says it as she grinds against his lap. “You love this math geek.”

He does. He really does. There is no formula to calculate the length and breadth of his love. It’s infinity times infinity. She’s latched onto the sweet spot under his ear. This will all be over too soon, if he doesn’t slow it down. He takes a slow breath in. Rummages through the stored trivia he’s collected over the years. The stuff most people would roll their eyes at. The stuff Dana Scully seems to find an aphrodisiac, when she’s in the mood. And as she rocks back and forward on him, arms anchored on his shoulders, it’s a fair bet to assume she’s in the mood.

“Did you know that pre red and jolly Santa Claus, hardened arteries and all, Scandinavian countries believed in a magical Yule goat.

“A goat?” Her voice hits the part of his brain that has control of his cock, ratcheting up a gear. She notices, it’s all in her little whimper.

“The goat would wander around to ensure families were preparing for Yule and demand gifts on the side.”

“A Mafia goat?”

He chuckles and bucks up under her movement. She moans into his mouth. “Ready for more math, Mulder?”

“I’m always ready for more math with you, Dr Scully.” Math and science, morality and scepticism

“To reach everybody on Christmas Eve, Santa has to cover 218 million miles which means he must travel 1,280 miles per second.”

“He must have the elite model alien-technology-built engine on that sleigh.” His fingers work on unbuttoning her top as she rolls her pelvis.

“I concede that unnatural forces are at play at this time of the year, Mulder.” He tries to nod but there’s something more than natural happening down below so he lets her talk as he works his hands around her back to unclip her bra. His fingers brush the knots of her spine and he wonders at her delicate framework, wonders how calcium and collagen and marrow could be so utterly sexy.

“Santa’s sleigh would weigh more than 400,000 tons with all those toys so he would need more than 360,000 reindeer to do that.” 

Her breasts fall and his palms flatten over them. Her nipples are already hard and he muses that biology is the best science. The human form offers such comfort. Such diversity in texture. He marvels at the gentle weight of her breasts, the peaked points pushing at his skin. The sensual warmth of her mouth, the softness of her against the hardness of his body.

“So Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph need some more friends?”

“Uh-huh,” she says and it’s just the sexiest noise.

She’s grappling with his belt buckle and he doesn’t mind. He loves her grappling. She’s always been deft with her hands so it’s a pleasure of a different nature to see her working so hard, tongue kept neatly in the corner of her mouth, fingers white at the knuckle. He shifts up, allowing her room to do her work.

His belt slithers from its loops and she utters a small whoop of success. He captures the end of the noise in his mouth and pushes her blouse from her shoulders, along with her bra. There’s a stippling of gooseflesh over her exposed midriff. He runs his hands over her ribcage, counting each groove as his straining erection pulses between them.

There’s a smoky flavour to her skin, her nipples, the knobbly joint between her breasts. She’s woodfire and spice, naked on the couch beneath him. Laid out as a gift that he’s blessed to receive. His cock is throbbing with anticipation and she’s open-mouthed and flushed with need too. Her heat wraps around the tip, spreads up his shaft and burns in his throat, his mouth, his brain.

There are sounds all around, the reverberations of his own deep breathing, Scully’s soft moans, the snap of flames, the heartbeat-tick of the old-fashioned mantel clock keeping time above their stockings as though they might be in need of it. Time has never been less important. Time could just disappear and he doubts even Scully would care.

Each stroke fills him with such deep joy that he is sure there is nothing else in the world. She arches her back and in turn he pumps harder, understanding the clues that point to her building climax. Hot breaths under his ear, fingernails scraping the planes of his shoulders, forehead covered in a sheen of sweat.

“Fuck, Mulder.”

That’s the most overt sign and he slides a hand under her ass closing whatever gap there had been, pinning her to him so that he can feel her implode. When she does, she cries out and her voice hits his own release button and he surges into her with a shuddering sigh.

She’s boneless underneath him, pulsing faintly, shimmering. He’s unwilling to move. Their hearts beat as one. When he does shift, it’s because the fire spits and smoke fills his nasal passages. He presses his lips to hers and she tugs at the ends of his hair.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He sits up and chuffs. “What for?”

“For loving me again.”

Her skin is hot as he sets his palm on her bent knees. Her hair is stuck to the side of her face. There are crease marks on her cheek where his weight had pushed her against the couch cushions. She’s still wearing her socks. How could he not love her?

“I never stopped,” he says, handing her the discarded underwear. “You’re pretty hard to let go, Scully.”

She swings herself round and up and slips her panties back on. “I’m old, still sceptical, I’m getting more and more cranky, I have zero patience for anything. I just seem to look at life and think how inefficient it is. I mean, what do you see in someone like that? Someone so bitter?”

He stands behind her, massaging her shoulders, kissing the scar of her chip. “You know how many reindeer Santa needs to pull his sleigh.”

She giggles softly into his clasped hands around her neck. “And that’s the criteria you use as a guide to loving someone?”

“What can I say, Scully. I’m a simple man, with simple needs.”

She laughs harder this time. “You are the most complex man I’ve ever met, Fox William Mulder.”

“No, no, no, Miss Scully. I think you’re confusing me with the other Fox William Mulder. This one here just wants to spend every waking hour loving you and every sleeping hour dreaming about loving you. As efficiently as possible.”

Her stocking moves on an updraft from the fire and she reaches out to still it. “I used to have strict rules about love, Mulder.”

He’s by her side now, holding her hand. “I can’t believe Dr Dana Scully ever had any rules in her life. Sounds fake.”

“When I was a teenager, watching Missy have her heart broken or breaking hearts. I imagined how my future relationships would be. Should be. I’ve broken all the rules over the years, of course. Older men, married men.” She turns her face up to him. “Women.”

The flush on her skin deepens. “You do keep me guessing, Scully.”

“But you rewrote the rule book entirely. You made me see what love was really about. You’ve loved me so openly and honestly that it hurt sometimes. It was too much. But this time round, it’s like I’ve grown to fit the size of your love. Does that make sense?”

It makes perfect sense. So much sense that a tear slips down his cheek. “There’s a reason why some things cannot be explained away by science, don’t you think? There are reasons why some ideals become so embedded in a society that you can’t tell where the line between fantasy and reality lies any more. Santa Claus, St Nicholas he was real. And now he’s a secret magical sleigh-speeding reindeer-riding dream figure. He personifies the clash between the commercial and the sacred. Love is no different, is it?”

“So true love has become Hallmark sentiment, and we don’t know the difference any more?”

Their bodies press together and they’re almost swaying in rhythm to the dancing flames. Heat washes over them. Their stockings are flat, expectant. “If saying I love you in 14 point Edwardian Script is what it takes then so be it, Scully.”

Her hair tickles the skin of his upper arm and he lifts it, allowing her under, so her cheek rests on his pecs. His cock is still half-mast and twitches as her breast squash against his ribs. “I had you pegged as a 48 point, bold Chiller font kind of guy, Mulder.” She makes a breathy ‘wooooohhhh’ noise, like a ghost.

“Who would you haunt, Scully? If you could?”

“Kersh,” she fires off, no hesitation.

He barks out a laugh. “I think I’ll join you. Imagine the pair of us tormenting him in his dotage. Floating around his place, leaving all the evidence of ghostly activity behind, and he wouldn’t be able to prove a goddamned thing. He’d sound like a lunatic. Such sweet revenge.”

She shivers as she laughs with him and he pulls her in for a full embrace. “I wonder what Maurice and Lyda are doing now?”

“Probably not cuddling naked in front of a fire in a cabin in the mountains.”

“More fool them. This is the only place to be on Christmas Eve.”

“We’re not going to shoot each other, are we?”

She chuckles, but it’s low and throaty and his cock twitches. “Lucky we left our weapons at home.”

“Maybe we should just exchange gifts instead?”

“As long as mine’s not an umbrella with alien faces on it this year. I’ll get dressed and go get yours.”

He pulls a face, hanging on to her arm. “Don’t.”

“Get your gift?” she asks, chin tilted up to him. “It might be better than an Italian leather Filofax, Mulder.”

He chuckles, but shakes his head. “Don’t get dressed.”

She looks at her nipples, tight peaks and grins at him.

He shrugs. “Best present ever.”

She looks at his cock and arches her eyebrow. “Ditto.”

The fire snaps and flickers and the stockings waft back and forth. The couch is draped in soft amber light. He takes her hand in his and leads her back there.

“There is a school of thought, Scully, that suggests that believing in Santa Claus cultivates the imagination and the ability to think of possibilities and potentialities. He buries his face in the warm valley between her breasts and she strokes his hair.

“And I know how much you want to believe.”

As the clock sounds a soft chime for the turn of midnight, he stirs, half-opens an eye. There’s a shadow stretching from the open door of the bedroom to the fire, now just ashes in the hearth. It’s large and round. There’s a cool draft and Scully shivers in her sleep. He pulls the blanket higher over them as she snuggles closer. There’s a scraping noise and a soft jingle of bells. He sinks back down against the pillow and smiles as he drifts back to sleep.


End file.
